


In the green light

by Saraste



Series: Nwalin Week 2018 [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (give me a good tag to tag Nori with in this?), Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Day 3: Over the Hill, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Kissing, Nwalin Week 2018, Other, Tasteful Smut, fairy rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:44:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraste/pseuds/Saraste
Summary: Dwalin steps on a fairy ring.





	In the green light

**Author's Note:**

> Written for nwalin week 2018, for day 3. over the hill ~~or under the mountain.~~
> 
> ~~I'm not sure I knew what I was doing when writing this.~~

Dwalin really should have known better, he  _ did  _ know better, yet here he is because curiosity is and forever shall be a tempting mistress and one had to make one absolutely foolish thing during one’s life, even when it was stepping through a fairy ring.

The forest around him is somehow  _ too much _ , it is too alive, too green,  _ too ancient _ , the earth itself beneath his feet seems to thrum with life, pulse with magic and Dwalin couldn’t have turned and ran back, had he wanted to, because it feels like there are roots pinning his feet to the ground, and he  _ couldn’t leave _ because of what stands before him. The too-much forest he could have run from, but not…

‘Oh, you’re  _ human, _ ’ the pretty creature before him comments, an unearthly gleam in their eyes, bright and shining purple, like amethysts.

And Dwalin knew that he ought not to know their colour, shouldn’t have gotten lost in their inviting depths, should not have gotten lost in whatever spell those eyes could weave, but he could not have not looked, had he wanted to.

… the heartstopping realization is that he hadn’t wanted to.

They have pretty eyes and a lithe body and Dwalin somehow  _ knows _ that they aren’t one or the other, there is nothing so mundane as being only one in this twilight realm of green and the old ways, this world of amazement and wonder, and had this pretty creature before his eyes been of his world, Dwalin is sure they would still have been  _ they _ , not to be confined into one sex, shaped by expectations on gender and what was proper and expected by a society enamoured with categorizing everything into neat, strictly defined boxes. There is nothing proper here. No category. Nothing strictly defined. The limbs go on for miles, the eyes are to drown in and the wild russet hair, it begs to be held in Dwalin’s big work-calloused hands as Dwalin surrenders, body and soul, utterly and fully.

Dwalin hadn’t spoken, hadn’t uttered a sound beyond a surprised gasp after the grumbling half-garbled swearing when he had fallen head first into this other realm, and the choking gasp when the pretty thing had seemed to melt out of the green growing shadows which the wooded glade seemed to be full of, even when it was hard to tell because everything seemed to shifting and changing constantly, the only constant the creature before him.

They do not seem to mind Dwalin’s speechlessness, let alone care, and had taken the liberty to speak first, speaking with a tinkling echoing voice, full of wonder, undercut by hunger, which kind, Dwalin could not discern. Nor did he care. Even if he hoped for lust.

The long fingers, pale of skin, with a green undertone, reach out to touch Dwalin’s weathered bearded cheek, making Dwalin instantly, achingly hard, leaving him breathless and light-headed.

Delicate-fingered hands cups Dwalin’s face between them, the skin of the palms soft like a child’s, but there is nothing childish in the touch, the intent behind it. The hunger from before, still lingering, was definitely lust from the start.

‘What are you?’ Dwalin finally manages to whisper, his first words in this other-place, as he feels himself falling, a chill going down his spine and his body taking firmer root in this twilight realm even when he had yet to partake in any food or drink, which would hold him here, if he ever wanted to leave.

Or so the legends said.

‘Not who?’ The fae’s voice is amused to Dwalin’s ears, young and flirting, even when they are undoubtedly as old as the bones of the earth. Their agelessness is making Dwalin feel shudderingly old and gruff, not deserving of the fae’s attentions, because how could someone like him interest such a person?

The forest seems to wait, to watch, even when the life in it almost suffocates Dwalin, who has to wonder if the world he knew had really been like this, once. This was the realm of legend, of fireside tales and myth. Careless and dangerous to the unwary.

‘I know enough not to ask names, to avoid… anything,’ Dwalin says, even when the words seem to stuck to his throat, when there is an insistent nagging in his brain that screamed at him to tell his name and the names of his parents and ten generations back, to lay out his lineage before his better, to give everything away. But it didn’t seem to come from the pretty thing but of the living breathing realm itself, which was quick to trick mortals into staying, even when it did not seem to be particularly malicious about it. That was just it’s way.

The fae’s smile is full of too many teeth, somehow, and the wild hair, with a mind of its own, wraps around Dwalin’s forearms like vines, like a lover’s embrace.

The world is in those beautiful unearthly eyes as Dwalin is drawn closer, there’s breath against his lips and a tongue flicks out before the words. “I am your wildest dreams,’ is promised before Dwalin is consumed in a fierce kiss.

Dwalin has never been kissed like that, like it was sex, not something leading into sweaty naked limbs and panting, wandering hands and slickness, but an act of fornication in and of itself.

He shudders in the unnamed fae’s embrace, coming, crying out his pleasure into that sinful mouth, never wanting to leave, if a kiss alone was like this, an overpowering wave of on-going pleasure, the wave never withdrawing, letting him drown in it take root here and forget his mortal life, then why would he want to leave?

They fall down onto a bed of bluebells, which Dwalin deems strange for a fleeting moment, because it had been winter where he had been before, in that long ago mundane place where he had not had the privilege bestowed upon him by this lovely creature of magnificent beauty to touch and look his fill as curious eyes did the same, coveting fingers learning his foreign mortal body, which age and life has marked.

And the pretty fae  _ is _ beautiful. They are not one or the other when they peel themselves away from their practical yet oddly flowy and airy garments, letting their hair fall over pale limbs, greenish veins showing through in spider-web patterns where the skin is thin.

Dwalin’s beard seems to excite the pretty fae as much as it intrigues, their fingers and mouth learning how it feels, tongue even coming out to lick, all the unexpected attention bringing Dwalin back to hardness, even when he had thought himself done for a while, not being the youngest with salt and pepper hair and beard.

They slot together easy as anything with the eagerly shifting fae in Dwalin’s lap, shivering against him, feeling both innocent and inexperienced at the same time as they wriggle and shift and search for only what they themselves know. They are slick and wonderful and Dwalin can’t decide where to put his hands as he wants to touch everywhere, but settles onto hips, groans as the fae shifts and shifts against him just right, making him groan.

Blue flower petals float in the air around them in the green light as the fae seeks Dwalin’s lips in a new all-consuming kiss, gasping and crying out in his mouth as they writhe in his arms and find their first peak, making Dwalin feel it, the forest singing around them.

Their smile is less feral sated, almost sweet and they seem to glow greener, sweat sheening their skin as they draw back a bit to regard Dwalin. 

‘Do you want in?’ the nameless fae eventually asks and Dwalin wonders at where, but the thought disappears when he’s guided into a slick opening at a nod and he’s…

‘Dwalin,’ he admits his name, because he has to hear it from those pretty kiss-swollen lips, needs to hear it in the pretty fae’s ethereal tones, wants to hear it pleasure hazed from their lips, if a fae can get pleasure hazed, lose themselves like a mortal can.

The fae leans close, smiling with teeth and somehow less feral than before, the pretty amethyst eyes not so demanding any longer, the fae leans close, shifting their hips just so all the while, gasping as Dwalin moves, the fae leans and whispers into Dwalin’s ear, ‘Call me Nori.’

*

Dwalin never grows old in the fae realm and never looks back and always loves Nori, freely and willingly, under the green light and on the bluebells which never wither.

  
  



End file.
